Star Trek Online: An NPC's Life
by the Starfleet Kid
Summary: These are a series of vignettes I wrote focusing on the background scenes visible in Star Trek Online. The characters are obviously NPCs and have no defined character or meaningful existence of any kind, but I thought it might be interesting to speculate and develop each into a short scene, as if they did. Each will be set on a different map somewhere in-game, written just for fun.
1. Chapter 1

The young Trill known as Lieutenant Commander Tana was used to things happening on this deck. It was a popular place on Deep Space Nine, right off the Promenade - the market and auction room. To her right, an auction for commodities and rare goods was underway, as always. The sounds of shouting, of the Ferengi auctioneer, the occasional growl of his Nausicaan muscle, were a constant presence on this deck. Just beyond that were a series of consoles up a short staircase. Bustling with officers eager to access bank or mail functions, this was a fascinating place for the lieutenant commander to have her duty watch.

She stood, as ever she did, with her back to one of the station's peculiarly Cardassian support pillars, its lights glowing a yellow-green behind her, at attention, awaiting the interest of one of the hundreds of serving captains who walked this deck regularly. It was a fascinating duty posting, always interesting, people coming and going. The market and auction room was always a lively place, and Tana noted with relief that the activity level on this deck always made the shift fly by. This room was also the usual haunt of the chief medical officer, which seemed odd to Tana. After all, Deep Space Nine had a fully stocked infirmary, and a very well-run one at that.

Tana noted a bit of a lull in the action and moved to the chief medical officer's side. "How are you?" she asked.

The medical officer looked up, her green features, reflective eyes and pointed, hairless dome of a head as inscrutable as usual. "I am well. Are you in need of treatment for your injuries?"

"No, I'm well, thanks." Tana noted that the medic's eyes were not fully focused upon her. "What are you up to?"

"My usual business in this room, at present," the medic replied.

"I like it - so different from a starship. It's not like any place I've ever served before."

The chief medical officer scarcely noticed Tana's words. "Hm?"

"The personnel traffic," Tana repeated, a bit miffed. She adjusted her regulation-length brown hair and stood beside the chief medical officer, observing the coming and going officers of the various factions of the galaxy's great powers as well as of civilian outfits and freighters, the pedestrian traffic of the commerce and trade of the Alpha Quadrant.

"Not all the personnel," the chief medical officer replied, nodding forwards. "Just... her."

Together, the two women watched, while a civilian crewman in a two-part grey/drab outfit, seemingly human with a light complexion, dark eyes and shoulder-length hair, stood impatiently with her arms crossed - for just a fraction of a moment - before she gave a rather sharp cough. She then stretched her arms for a moment before indulging in a more severe coughing fit. She wandered back and forth in a sort of zig-zag pattern for a moment, first towards the Exchange, then away from it, towards the doorway, before cutting back towards a large hexagonal table in the room. She seemed to trip over the outermost stool, but actually stepped up onto it before turning away again, stepping up onto it yet again, then back down, before coming to a halt. After a few moments, she once again doubled over, hacking, before stretching her arms again.

"Is she unwell?" Tana asked.

"The cough is troublesome," the medic replied, "but the major cause of my interest is her pattern of motion. I have observed her continuing in this pattern unendingly for ...hours. She doesn't sit, she doesn't - she doesn't even notice the people around her, even the walls. And she continues going around like this for... I don't even know how long."

"Do we know who she is?"

"Station records have no listing for her. It's as though she just... turned up."

Tana continued to observe as the woman stopped, then looked at her wrist. "What is that motion she's making now?"

"The humans call it 'looking at one's watch'."

"Watch?" Tana was confused. "But she's a civilian officer, she wouldn't be asked to take watch here-"

The chief medical officer shook her head. "A human short-form for a portable chronometer. They've been obsolete for centuries."

"So why does she-?"

"No idea," the chief medical officer replied. "It's part of why I'm here. She'll pace back and forth, up and down, criss-crossing all over this deck, and I'm not entirely sure it's a pattern of mentally healthy behaviour. In fact, I can't see any evidence of any mind there at all."

"Have you tried talking to her about it?"

"She doesn't stay still long enough to listen," the medic replied, her reflective eyes two pools of compassionate empathy. "Or she starts coughing, and probably can't hear me anyway."

On the far side of the table, the civilian woman stood still for a moment, as if listening, before turning towards the threshold of the nearby door. Convinced they had offended her, Tana made a half-step to go and apologize before the woman turned back into the room, then walked back towards the table, and began stretching. As if allergic to exercise, she immediately gave a sharp cough before staring off into the distance, impatiently, before looking at her bare wrist yet again.

The chief medical officer leaned towards Tana, who shook her head in amazement. "I've seen this sort of thing in others around the station. There's an Andorian who's a member of a freighter crew, she does something similar out on the Promenade." The medic pointed over Tana's shoulder. "And over there is a Vulcan whose motion has a similar pattern. It is sincerely distressing - if this is a pattern, as I believe it is, then even the disciplined minds of Vulcans are susceptible."

Tana's eyes were wide, perturbed - there were others like this on the station so afflicted? She began to fret over the states of minds of these individuals. What sort of madness, what sorts of horrors had this young human female witnessed in her time to be put into such a state of repeated, pointless action? How had she managed to endure, to feed and sustain herself, for long enough to continue this pattern of behaviour almost continuously? Could this be the effects of a nerve agent, or a chemical exposure, or some psionic influence? Was this a general threat to the Federation - was this poor woman's plight merely the beginning of a greater doom?

Tana felt for her, and the urge to intervene was overwhelming. Still, if the medic at her side was only at the point of observing, there was little Tana could do without such medical expertise to offer any meaningful support or assistance - although she had to admit, the urge to scream at the woman, to try to snap her out of this continual living reverie, was overwhelming. She looked back to the chief medical officer. "You think it's some sort of illness?"

"I don't know yet," the medic replied. "My earlier scans were inconclusive - nothing particularly notable. Were I telepathic, I would want to scan these people, see if they were in some form of distress... but in all honesty, I'd be worried that in their minds I'd see nothing at all."

Now the civilian crewman walked across the front of the right-side Exchange booth, towards an Andorian female who was locked in a quiet yet passionate argument with a member of a species Tana did not recognize. While the alien pleaded with her, the Andorian merely looked conciliatory, if apologetic. Strangely, the presence of the human woman in the midst of their conversation - walking right up to the Andorian woman nearly close enough to slam faces into each other - did not disrupt the flow of their argument. Still, the woman walked, back and forth to the table, then stopped in the middle of the floor, directly in front of Tana. More coughing, then stretching, then coughing again - harder now - before an impatient cross of the arms, and another sharp cough. Then she continued on back towards the threshold of the doorway, walking into the wall on one side before moving across the threshold, standing on the far side for a moment, and coughing.

"We should report this to Captain Kurland," Tana admitted, simply heartbroken at the sight she had beheld. "I don't know how I didn't notice this before. It's so sad to see."

"Not yet," the medic replied. "I realize this is awful to behold, but the captain prefers for me to bring him answers, not questions. That way no one jumps before it's necessary."

"I understand, just... damn."

"Looks like you have a customer," the chief medical officer said, pointing to a Tellarite captain who seemed to be pacing about angrily near Tana's usual duty station.

Tana nodded. "Right."

"Look, just - trust me. I'll get to the bottom of this, I promise."

"You will?"

"I will. You handle your responsibilities - let me handle mine."

"Alright," Tana replied. "Good luck."

"And if you find yourself wandering about aimlessly between the replicator and the table, tell me."

Tana laughed, thinking the alien medic was making a joke. She glanced over to see her fellow officer's face to be completely serious, watching in concern as the civilian crewman walked back towards the table, then to the Exchange, back and forth in a zigzag pattern, and out into the corridor again before coughing and stretching in the doorway for a moment. Saddened, Tana realized that this was a situation well beyond her ability to correct, and returned to her post to assist the Tellarite captain. Yet she barely heard the captain's words, a tear trickling down her cheek as she watched the poor, desperate woman cough, stretch, and look at her wrist, before coughing again, walking into a nearby wall, almost without any notice at all, and wandering off throughout the room yet again.


	2. Chapter 2

The surface of Nimbus III was a scorchingly hot place to be. In an unending desert, in the height of what seemed to be perpetual daytime, the blinding light of the planet's sun, coupled with the arid climate, had created a nearly uninhabitable surface upon which to find oneself. And yet, for the three Klingon warriors who found themselves isolated and disarmed at the centre of this broiling-hot scene, the situation was desperate. Two of them sat, leaning forwards to keep the sun off their faces, while a third, barely conscious and delirious with thirst, lay on his back, insensitive to the heat.

The higher-ranked warrior, a _bekk_ , spoke first. "Defeat! Are we not warriors?" He looked to the younger warrior. "Are we not Klingons?"

"Quiet!" the younger warrior rasped, his throat barren. He gestured, slightly, with his fingers towards their most immediate threat. All around, ranging in size from that of a young _targ_ to as large as a single-seat fighter, were a disconcertingly numerous group of Dewan arthropods - sand scorpions. The biggest of the great ugly creatures each had two talons which could cleft a warrior in two, with a poisoned barb in the tail capable of spewing venom over an impressive distance. These were no mere overgrown insects; rather, they behaved with an aggression and an intelligence worthy of a Klingon.

The _bekk_ realized his mistake and spoke in softer tones. "I would sooner die fighting them than remain here to bake to a crisp."

"Fighting these animals will not secure you a place in Sto-vo-Kor," the warrior replied. "Charging off like a stubborn targ - that was how we found ourselves in this place to begin with!"

"I will not be spoken to in such tones," the _bekk_ growled.

"Why not? I only wish I had before! It was your incompetence that has cost us all our honour - my soul will burn in _Gre'thor_ because of your idiocy! Why would we seek to fight the Tal Shiar by marching across an open desert to fight them? Are those Orions in the hills not our allies? Why not secure their aid?"

The _bekk_ 's voice rose in frustration at the warrior's lack of understanding of the subtleties of the Syndicate. "Those Orions are not our allies. They serve another mistress-"

There was a hissing noise as the sand scorpions took notice of the chatter and several of them came closer for a moment, as if to investigate. While they themselves spoke no language, they seemed to understand enough to know verbal communication meant threat. The bekk could not help but be impressed by their developed instincts. Clearly they were intelligent. Perhaps there was honour, after all, in being vanquished by such a foe.

The two Klingons waited a moment longer before the younger warrior spoke in whispers once again. "And now you would choose to fight like a trapped sabre bear - without claw or blade of your own!"

"Yes. That is our way. We are Klingons!"

The warrior turned his head, his eyes full of disgust. "We are the prisoners of _Ha'DIbaH!_ \- these mere beasts! We have not proven ourselves Klingon! We would have been better to die as cowards!"

The _bekk_ shook his head. "You speak as one without honour."

Each word of the warrior's response was softly spoken, but still reached the ears of the _bekk_ as if each word were a _d'k tahg_ drawn against him. "I speak as one with sense enough to know that you have doomed us all to death without honour!"

The _bekk_ scowled. He then turned to the older warrior, prostrate upon the ground, who let out a soft groaning. " _Gre'thor_..." he said slowly. " _Gre'thor_ beckons to me..."

" _Kajunpak't_ , warrior," the bekk implored. "Courage."

"I hear... the _kos'karii_ calling..." the older warrior said, not hearing the bekk's words. "My father's voice... he is ashamed..."

"Delusional _taHqeq_ ," the younger warrior replied disparagingly.

"No," the bekk scolded. "I hear them, too."

So, too, it seemed, did the scorpions. They ceased their interminable rambling in their cluster and came into a sort of echelon formation, with the largest at the rear and the smaller ones charging off at an impressive speed. Ahead of them, the _bekk_ saw coming into view a formation of individuals in grey and blue, rifles and pistols drawn, and their hair distinctively-

"Romulans?" the younger warrior said. He, too, had noticed their approach, and as the quintet of Romulan officers approached, they opened fire, some of them calling out their use of certain commands or instruments as they did. One of them, a shockingly beautiful dark-haired female, approached the _bekk_ and made a sympathetic face. Without speaking, she turned and brought forth a medical tricorder, administering it to one of her number, a tall male with a kit the Klingon _bekk_ recognized as being that of an engineer. He raised a hand towards the Romulan medic, in the faint hope of aid, if not rescue.

The apparent leader of the group, another female Romulan, this one with a bare head and a broad shouldered tunic without sleeves, looked down at the Klingons. "More prisoners?"

"Subcommander," a male voice from the back of the Romulan group replied. "Take a look at this. The signal's weakening."

"Again, I hear him!" the older warrior cried out. "Father! I have failed you! Save me from the gates of _Gre'thor_!"

The _bekk_ moved to stand, but found his strength faltering. His hand slipped and pressed against the smouldering metal of his armoured garb. He winced as the black leather and fabric which he wore came into contact with his skin along his thighs and back, in the places where the acid burns of the sand scorpions had singed his flesh. The torment became intolerable, and he sank back down, too exhausted to make any further motion.

The female subcommander pointed her plasma rifle in the westward direction. "Come on. We need to cut through those aehallh and get to the source of that transmission."

"Agreed," the other male Romulan said in reply. "There isn't much time."

"Wait," the male engineer noted. "What about them?"

"We've cleared a path for them to get back to Paradise City. They'll have to look to themselves from here. Let's go," the subcommander ordered. Wordlessly, the Romulan medical officer looked backwards at the bekk as she followed her group, who opened fire on a cluster of sandworms which had appeared over a dune on the horizon.

Flanked on all sides by dead sand scorpions, the younger warrior looked around, despondent, and a smile crossed his lips. "Glorious," he cried. "GLORIOUS! Even a Romulan _petaQ_ won't give us the courtesy of a hand up! Our fathers' enemies looked down on us with pity! And - and then they walked on! HAHAHAHAHA!" He cackled, his laughter rattling with anguish. "Even the Romulans expect more of us! 'Look after ourselves', she said!"Once again, the laughter rose from the young warrior, and he raised his hands towards himself as if conjuring the strength with which to despair.

The _bekk_ could not tell which burned hotter upon his face - the heat of Nimbus, or this warrior's insolence. " _Tohzah_! If this were another time and place, I would kill you for such talk!"

Still, the younger warrior continued to chuckle, until after a moment, he glowered at the _bekk_. "I wish you would," he said, his eyes burning into the _bekk_ 's very soul. "At least there would be honour in that." He turned away, his gaze resting upon the settlement called Paradise City, barely visible in the distance.

The _bekk_ made an effort to get up again, but somehow, from an unseen burrow, more sand scorpions had emerged, their claws tossing the bodies of their dead brethren aside to reach the prisoners. He rolled over to his side and came face to face with the unspeakably horrific visage of a fully mature sand scorpion, its left talon knocking him back into the seated position he had occupied just before. " _Forshak_ ," he muttered to himself, defeated. Beside him, the older warrior went on speaking of _Gre'thor_ , begging his father's forgiveness for his defeat.

But it was the younger warrior who unsettled the _bekk_ even more. Unable to control himself, seemingly overwhelmed with futility and madness, the younger warrior cackled yet again, and the desolation of his reckless laughter reverberated across the hills around them before he was silent again, resting his head in his lap as he sat on the desert floor, the three of them helplessly trapped. Unable to do much else, the _bekk_ placed his hands over his ears, and the shame of his predicament continued to burn in his heart with a fire Nimbus' sun could scarcely hope to match.

Around the three forlorn Klingons, and the dozen-odd sand scorpions that were their captors, the sands and canyons of the Planet of Galactic Peace stretched far, far away.


	3. Chapter 3

The Sierra system wasn't exactly known for its hospitality facilities, but it was as good a place as any to stop for a drink. Starbase 39's bar sat sandwiched awkwardly between its main material exchange facilities - Starfleet's outreach program kiosk, the shipyard liaisons, and its other assorted vendors - and its main transporter room. For most people, this was a place to rush past on the way to important business. For a number of Starfleet officers, though, this was, for the moment, a welcome respite from the obligations and responsibilities of the everyday.

Two such officers were at an adjacent table, one of whom punctured the silence that hung about the place like a funeral home with a deep and aggressive coughing. Normally, the only interruption to the tranquility was the occasional public announcement, but this cough was pronounced, undignified. And it happened more than once.

The bartender, a Caitian, had noticed. How could she help but notice? Her ears flicked in its direction every time it happened, and her whiskers twitched in annoyance at the sound. She handed a glass of Slug-o-Cola to a Ferengi trader at the end of the bar, then turned as the cough seemed to have come closer. She looked up to see the approach of the two officers from the far table, both with empty glasses.

"Y'know, maybe you should try something different, friend," she said to the coughing human male officer. "That didn't seem to have agreed with you."

"What?" The man seemed offended. "I've been drinking Xarantine ale since before I went to the Academy." He gave a roll of his eyes to his companion, a slender, attractive Rigelian female. "Seriously."

"You must have started early," the Rigelian replied. She handed her glass to the bartender. "Another Gamzian wine, please."

"Coming right up." The bartender turned around and retrieved a bottle, filling the glass. "There you are." She handed the glass back to the Rigelian, just as the human male coughed again. When he straightened up, his eyes took on a strange, bewildered glare.

"Are you alright?" the Rigelian asked him.

"I - I just - my God." He took a few steps back. "For a minute there, I could've sworn you were Bolian."

The bartender gave the man a sour look. "Do you see these ears? This tail? No way."

"Come on," the Rigelian said hastily. "Let's get you home."

"No - wait - I can see it all clearly now." The man raised a hand. "I can't believe it. This - this is all just one instance of this place. In the same time, I mean. There - there are multiple instances. I can see them all!"

The Rigelian placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're drunk."

"I'm no such thing!" He smacked her hand aside and extended his own arm. "In instance number four a Romulan captain is running past - but in instance two, there's - there's an Andorian captain, standing right there, looking out the window."

"Tell me what's going on in number three," the Caitian bartender snarked, her tone dismissive.

The human came forward, leaned against the bar and, startling her, stared intently into the bartender's eyes. "This IS instance number three."

The Caitian took a step back, her ears each off to the side. "You're - you're crazy, man."

"Am I?" The human felt a Rigelian hand on his shoulder, but ignored it. "Or am I finally seeing the truth of it all?"

From behind his glass of Slug-o-Cola, the Ferengi broke into laughter and shook his head.

"Let's go," the Rigelian implored, tugging on the man's shoulder.

"Right now - right now, the transporter duty officers are talking about Lieutenant Brocal - she... she thinks she's in way over her head! And you!" The human officer pointed to the Ferengi. "You're Ulish - you... you reneged on a treaty with the Deferi!"

"I have not!" Ulish snarled. "And I'll have you know that such slanders carry penalties!"

"No..." The human male's eyes went wider even as the Rigelian hooked her arm under his, practically dragging him away. "No, you altered the terms of the deal!"

"So what if I did? There's nothing illegal in that."

The human officer pointed accusingly. "But there is! And you know it!" He braced his footing, bringing the Rigelian who was towing him to an abrupt halt. "Go, tell Ambassador Vimok!" he said to her. "He's a Rigelian, like you - he'll listen to you!"

"I - um..." The Rigelian looked to the bartender, then to Ulish, before shaking her head. "I'm really sorry. I don't know what's wrong with him." She put her hands on his arm again. "Let's get you up to sickbay."

"The nerve of you hyoo-mons!" Ulish said loudly enough for all to hear, with a slow shake of his head.

"They'll all learn the truth soon enough, Ulish!" the human officer could be heard saying as the Rigelian officer dragged him towards the nearest turbolift.

The bartender made her way down to the far end, away from the commotion, and gave a Benzite customer there a well-received refill on his root beer. The Benzite bowed appreciatively. "For your trouble," the Caitian said with a smile as she took a rag to the bar. There was no need to do this - the surface of the bar was self-cleaning. But it bought her valuable time to let Ulish settle back into his Slug-o-Cola. By the time she got close enough to whisper - or rather, not to be overheard, since she could have whispered on the far end of the station and been overheard by the Ferengi - she quietly remarked to Ulish, "aren't you in the middle of negotiations right now?"

"I'm a Ferengi," he snarled. "If I'm not going after profits, I'm either sick or dead."

"Profits," the bartender replied. "It's always profits with your people."

"You might call it a way of life."

"I might call it intergalactic fraud," the Caitian declared with a snarl of her own. "And I might call it that to the admiral."

"You wouldn't dare - on what basis?" The Ferengi scoffed. "The ramblings of a drunken hyoo-mon?"

"I wouldn't need a basis. Just suspicion. And I could let her sort out the rest. Vulcans are known to be very... meticulous in their attention to details. Especially with regards to Ferengi trade contracts."

A snort of some volume came from the seated Ferengi. "You wouldn't dare," he repeated.

The Caitian smiled and gave a nod to the listening Benzite, who took the hint and made his way to the admiral's office. "Maybe you're right, Ulish," she said with a chuckle. "But then, maybe that's not how things work in this instance."

Unsettled, Ulish remained seated at the bar, his face taking on a sort of squeamish expression, broken only by his eyes suspiciously darting to the Caitian bartender every time she took a step. Which she did - as frequently as possible, making herself as busy as possible for the next few minutes until three lieutenants from Starfleet Security arrived to escort the Ferengi to the admiral's office. As he left, Ulish gave a dirty look at the bartender, who had poured herself a cup of Xarantine ale in the hopes of seeing how it all turned out - in this instance, at least.


	4. Chapter 4

"Katterpods are here! Get your katterpods!"

The city of Hathon was bustling. Indeed, when was it not? Through the ancient city's streets, Bajoran civilians went about their business. Some wore the grey, crimson or dark yellow of the Bajoran militia, while others wore religious robes or various other outfits. Consoles flared with light, their displays in the Bajoran language. Every doorway seemed to have a friendly face close by, yet few stopped along their paths to offer a greeting.

"Katterpods!" one of the many vendors cried.

As if on cue, another joined in. " _Jumja_ sticks for the children!" her voice implored. Strangely there were no children to be seen, but many Bajoran parents were known to bring the treat home with them, for it was easy to carry.

" _Kava_ , _kava_ , _KAVA_!" called another, his enthusiasm for the versatile plant product native to this world obvious in the tone of his voice. "Sweet _kava_ rolls and roasted _kava_ nuts!"

Through these streets, a female Bajoran vedek passed in the company of a Federation engineer, also Bajoran, but male. "This city," the engineer began, "is remarkable. There are few places in the Federation to match it."

"How do you mean?" the vedek asked.

"It's like... it's almost as though it's suspended in time. And yet, somehow modern. Replicators alongside fresh fruit... there are very few places I can think of where that's just part of the scene. "

They walked past a garden park, in between two Federation offices. "I mean, look," the engineer said. "A portable subspace transceiver at one end, and at the other..." He gestured across the park. "A tree. How long do you figure that tree has stood there?"

"Prophets know," the vedek replied, slightly annoyed. "Just get around to it."

"What?"

"The word you're looking for is, 'backwards'."

The engineer was offended. "What makes you say that?"

"I didn't - but you will."

They continued to walk. "Just because I joined Starfleet doesn't mean I look down on my own homeworld. You should know that - we've known each other for how long now?"

"Long enough," the vedek replied, "that I know not to question your roots. But you've always been like that tree, you know."

"Me? How so?"

The vedek paused in her path, and looked back at the tree, pointing at its base. "You've always been rooted here," she began, her hand rising as she spoke. "But you've always reached out for something beyond - something out there, in the stars."

The engineer nodded. "That may be true," he replied after a moment's thought, "but you're not all that different, y'know."

"I don't follow." The vedek narrowed her eyes in confusion.

"You've been reaching, too - for the Celestial Temple." He looked up. "To bring us closer to the Prophets."

The vedek sighed, then looked down. "I have to confess, my faith of late has been shaken." Her tone became increasingly fraught with brief pauses, a sign of her upset.

"Because we lost the station." The engineer frowned. "I understand."

"One can never know the ways of the Prophets, but this time... I have struggled with why they would let this happen."

"I talked to my captain about it - she said that the Prophets themselves spoke to her."

"I was at Temple when she was there. She told me of her vision." The vedek frowned. "I wish I understood them better."

The engineer patted her on the shoulder. "Don't take it so hard. They didn't abandon us during the Occupation. It was our faith that brought us through. It'll get us through this, too."

The vedek nodded, and then turned to continue along her way. The engineer followed at her side, momentarily turning his head to follow the passage of an attractive blonde in a light brown, low-cut dress, before returning to her side. "Our _hasperat_ is the spiciest around!"one of the vendors called as they passed.

They approached a junction in the pathway which was beset with Bajorans, some of them on-duty members of the militia, and Klingon warriors standing around a munitions dump. "Bajor for Bajorans!" someone cried out.

"Oh, what's this now," the engineer muttered.

At the centre of the dispute was a Bajoran constable, hand on her pistol, and a Klingon officer. "You can't stop me from leaving," the Klingon declared with certainty.

"I won't have your people cause any more trouble," the constable replied, holding her ground.

The Klingon growled. "I won't be caged like an animal!" Several of his compatriots snarled their approval. "Am I a prisoner here? Stand aside and let a warrior pass!"

Yet, to her credit, the constable would not be intimidated. "You can't leave this area of the city without permission from Colonel Hana!"

"I will do what I want and take what I need!"

As if on cue, a vendor's voice from down the way punctuated the tense silence. "Shrimp, fresh from the coast!"

"We're not scared of you!" one of the Bajoran civilians cried out.

Realizing his audience, the Klingon bore his teeth at the civilian, then shouted, "We should just let the Jem'Hadar take this pathetic planet!" He laughed, and so did the others. He stepped towards the constable. "Fight your own battles! _petaQ_!"

"We fought the Cardassians!" another Bajoran civilian declared, to the approval of his people alongside. "We'll fight the Jem'Hadar if we need to - and we'll fight you, too!"

"Miserable _to'ba_!"

The curse only served to further enrage the Bajoran civilian. "I'm not scared of you!" he said, stepping forward.

The Klingon brought forth a _d'k tahg_ , brandishing it and extending its forked tips, grinning fiercely at the undaunted Bajorans.

This was the line in the sand for the constable. "I don't want to use this." She drew her pistol. "Don't force me to."

There was a desperate moment as the Klingon raised his blade, the constable began to draw her pistol, and several Bajoran civilians raised their fists. "Hot _mapa_ bread, fresh from the ovens!" someone from the vendors' tables shouted in the background, oblivious to the street fight that was about to go down.

The engineer looked over his shoulder, about to state his intention to call for backup, when he noticed the vedek was no longer there. He looked up and saw her stepping in between the constable and the Klingon. Without fear, her face serene, she stared into the Klingon's bloodthirsty eyes. "Any action you should take with that blade would be an attack against Bajor." She paused for a moment, eye contact unbroken, her serenity undimmed. "So." She raised her arms to either side, her vedek's robes falling in a fluid manner. "Let it begin with me."

"I have no quarrel with you, priest," the Klingon officer stated.

"You would quarrel with these people. They are of Bajor, as I am. Therefore, I say to you, let it begin with me." She looked over her shoulder at the Bajoran civilians, each of whom wore expressions far less serene than hers - the constable, the civilians, and the engineer each with faces ranging from concern to pure panic.

Slowly she turned towards them, deliberately showing her back to the Klingons as she did. "And you, who are my people - you would raise your fists and weapons against our guests, those who may well become our liberators should the Jem'Hadar attack our world." She placidly raised her arms again. "These Klingons are here in good faith, and despite their occasional deviations from what we expect of them, we may come to rely upon them for our defense. Should you refuse them our hospitality, then your actions will speak for all of us. Therefore, I say unto you, let it begin with me."

There was dead silence between the two conflicting groups. "Fresh _moba_ fruit!" came a cry from the vendors along the path.

"HA!" the Klingon declared, slapping the vedek on the shoulder as he stepped to her right side. Smiling at the crowd, he nodded in exaggerated approval. "So, there is spirit among these people after all. Good." He turned back to his crew. "WARRIORS!" he shouted. "We will comply with the wishes of the lady constable. And we will remain in peace. But first!" Once again the d'k tahg was raised.

This brought a tumult from the Bajoran side, as it appeared that he intended to plunge the dagger into the vedek's chest. But from beneath the folds of her robes his left hand rose, gripped the blade, and drew blood from his hand.

"You honour my people," the Klingon said to the vedek. "And to yours," he added after a moment.

The vedek nodded as the engineer returned to her side. "May the Prophets bless your mission, and safeguard our world by so doing." She bowed, her hands within her robes, a slight smile crossing her expression as she turned away from the Klingon and returned to walking along her path.

The engineer waited a moment, studying the expressions of the Bajoran crowd. Mollified, they clapped each other on the backs, nodded appreciatively, and watched the vedek's passage around a corner.

In a few moments' time, the engineer caught up to his friend, the vedek. "Thank you," she serenely stated, "for guiding me." Her eyes drifted to the heavens, and the engineer realized he wasn't the one being addressed.

"Hold on a minute," he said, pulling back on her shoulder slightly. "Just what in the name of the Prophets was that?"

Without breaking her pace, her expression still tranquil, enigmatic, she closed her eyes and softly replied, "A leap of faith."

After a moment standing still, the engineer broke out into laughter, then rushed to rejoin her slow journey back to her Temple. They passed a vendor's stand as they went. "Homemade _tuwaly_ pie, just like grandmother's!" the vendor called. Behind them, and around them, the bustling streets of Hathon returned to their ordered path, the city much as it ever was, a slight scent of _bateret_ incense in the air.


End file.
